One day in that room, a small rat.

某天那个房间，一只小老鼠。

Two days later, a snake.

两天后，一条蛇。

Who, seeing me enter,

看到我进来，

whipped the long stripe of his

它迅速地将它长条纹的

body under the bed,

身体缩到床底下，

then curled like a docile house-pet.

然后蜷着，像只温顺的宠物。

I don’t know how either came or left.

我不知道它们是怎么进来或出去的。

Later, the flashlight found nothing.

后来，手电筒也找不到什么。

For a year I watched

我守望了一年，

as something—terror? happiness? grief?—

仿佛有什么东西——恐惧？欢喜？悲伤？——

entered and then left my body.

进入到我的身体又离开了。

Not knowing how it came in,

不知道它是怎么进来的，

Not knowing how it went out.

不知道它是怎么出去的。

It hung where words could not reach it.

它垂在词语够不着的地方。

It slept where light could not go.

它睡在光线照不到的地方。

Its scent was neither snake nor rat,

它的气味既不是蛇也不是老鼠，

neither sensualist nor ascetic.

既不是肉欲分子也不是苦行僧。

There are openings in our lives

我们的生命里有许多

of which we know nothing.

我们全然不知的开口。

Through them

穿过它们，

the belled herds travel at will,

那悬着铃铛的兽群随意而行，

long-legged and thirsty, covered with foreign dust.

长腿，饥渴，覆着异域的尘土。